Crosspurposes
by ginef
Summary: Elizabeth Swann and Will Turner struggle to find solid ground in the aftermath of betrayal. Takes place immediately following the end of POTC:DMC.


Disclaimer: I've temporarily liberated Will and Elizabeth from Disney and their clothing. No profit made. No infringement intended. They shall be returned promptly and not much the worse for wear.

Warnings: Fairly high level of angst and foreshadowing of a possible spoiler from _POTC: At World's End_. If you're spoiler shy, you might want to hold off.

Writer's Notes: Thanks to Kelly and Shaliza for the marvellous betas! This story benefits greatly from their input, although any errors remain mine. Thanks also to Liz for the moral support and for being the best grammar bitch in the world!

This one is for everyone who sent such wonderful feedback on my last story. It was much appreciated!

**Cross-purposes **

by ginef

1.

As the impromptu celebration carried on around her, Elizabeth Swann watched Will Turner slip silently up the stairs. She longed to follow him, but she could not. How could she ever explain to him what she had done and why? She could scarcely think upon it herself.

It had seemed so logical at the time; the best -- the only -- solution in an impossible situation. But as that horrid creature dragged the Black Pearl and her Captain down into the depths, the surety of that conviction had waned. The black and white, the wrong and right, which had for so long shaped her world, had faded into a murky grey.

Jack was right. They were alike.

When the bottle of rum next came her way, she took a long, deep swig.

2.

Will crept through the hallway, peeking into rooms, seeking a quiet place to gather his wits, tend his wounded back, and perhaps even get some rest. He could not remember the last time he had slept. Each time he tried, he was haunted by images of Elizabeth in Jack's arms or of the look of pride in his father's eyes at their parting.

Finally, at the end of the hall, he found a small room that looked promising -- no bottles or jars of eyeballs or frog legs swinging from the ceiling, no snakes (that he could see anyway) roaming the walls or floors, only a single candle burning on a washstand next to a small, neatly made bed.

He shut the door quietly on the sounds of revelry that had followed him up the stairs. He was not entirely sure what everyone was so happy about, considering they had just agreed to embark under the command of a just-returned-from-the-dead madman on an undertaking that they had little chance of surviving.

Still, he could not wait until they quit this vile place, lunatic at the helm or not. He had come, without realizing it, to crave the wind in his hair and the motion of a ship under his feet.

Besides, he hated it here, in this dank swamp where nothing was as it seemed and naught was on an even keel. This place where an enchantress could look into his eyes and claim to see his destiny.

Shaking himself from this thought, Will set the candle he was carrying next to the other candle on the washstand and looked around. This would do nicely. It was almost… normal, if one ignored the fact that the other candle was wedged firmly in a hole atop a human skull.

He removed his sword, baldric, belt, coat and vest before gingerly tugging at his shirt. He hissed as the fabric tore free of the partly healed lash marks still adorning his back. The pain made a welcome distraction from the less tangible ache in his heart.

Elizabeth.

Even the thought of her was an agony, and he forced the image of her in a clinch with Jack Sparrow from his mind for the ten thousandth time. He seized the pitcher from the washstand and quickly poured the contents into the basin. As he sought a flannel or a piece of cloth, it occurred to him that in the home of Tia Dalma, he would be wise to be mindful that things might not be what they seem. He sniffed the water (it smelled like water), and then quickly dismissed the thought. The idea of being accidentally poisoned was not all that disturbing at the moment anyway.

"Will."

He looked up to see Elizabeth standing awkwardly, leaning back against the door she had just closed. His name on her lips cut him to the bone.

They stood staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Their silence was as oppressive as the damp heat of this cursed swamp.

Her face was dirty and bruised, her hair dishevelled, eyes red and swollen from crying. She was swaying a little bit on her feet, either from the affects of rum or from exhaustion, he could not be certain. Probably both.

Will had absolutely no idea what to say to her. He could not bear it. He wanted to take her into his arms, but he knew the honourable thing to do was to release Elizabeth from her betrothal to him so that she could be with the man she truly loved. It seemed, however, that honour was something of which he was in short supply. The irony that this was exactly what Norrington had done was not lost on him. Even so, he found that he could not free Elizabeth. His cheeks burned with the shame of it.

Unable to face her any longer, he turned his back to her, and closed his eyes.

"My God, Will! Who did that to you?"

Will grimaced. He had forgotten the lash marks. He could hear her less than graceful approach and turned to face her again, backing away until he found himself in the corner. "'Tis nothing."

"Nothing?" She grasped his shoulder and pushed him around, gasping when she got a good look at the extent of the damage. "These must be cleaned."

Elizabeth took the rag from his hand and immediately set to tending his back. She worked in the deafening silence that now seemed to define their relationship. Will shivered -- and not from the pain -- as he resolved again to find the strength, the honour, to release her from her bonds to him.

After a time, her ministrations took a turn toward caresses. Will's eyes closed involuntarily. Why was she doing this to him? Had she not formed an attachment with Jack?

Her lips brushed the place where his shoulder met his neck and sent a current tingling down his spine. He abruptly moved away from her.

"I thank you for tending my wounds," he said with a small bow, and then attempted to step around her. If he could just make it to the door…

"Will." She caught his arm. "Pray speak with me."

Speak with her? It was the last thing he wanted to do! To be forced to listen to her confess her love of Jack? To be obliged to release her from her engagement to him and free her to pursue happiness with Jack? But was not her happiness the most important thing in the world? Will wanted to smite that nagging voice in the back of his head.

"I need to explain," Elizabeth started to speak again, her voice shaking with emotion. "Jack--"

With that name on her lips something in Will snapped. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her into a fervent kiss, desperate to stop the words that would be like a sword through his heart.

She tasted different. Gone were the echo of tea and peppermint he associated with her, replaced with the harsh tang of rum. Infuriated, he pulled her closer to him, deepening the kiss, searching desperately for what he remembered.

For a long moment, Elizabeth did not respond, but just as Will was about to release her, she sprang to life in his arms. Her hands went behind his neck, tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. They tumbled to the bed in an awkward jumble of arms and legs and, rather painfully, her sword. Will barely felt the sting of the sheets on the cuts on his back as Elizabeth rolled him over and clambered on top of him.

She straddled his hips, whipping her baldric and sword off over her shoulder and tossing them to the floor with a loud thud. The vest and men's shirt she was wearing soon followed. She sat above him looking a little uncertain. Will reached up and began to peel away the muslin wrap binding her breasts. Once she was free of the cumbersome material, he touched her reverently. She moaned softly and dropped her head back. God, she was so beautiful.

Her skin was sticky and hot to the touch. He wanted to feel more of her, so he pulled her down. She came willingly, collapsing on top of him and taking his lips with hers as her hands urgently fumbled with the fastening of his trousers. She rolled halfway off him to push them down until she encountered his boots. With a frustrated growl she jumped up, yanked off his boots and trousers, and, with astonishing speed, disposed of her own. She was back beside him on the bed before he truly registered what was happening.

He rolled them over so she was beneath him and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Her skin tasted of salt and sweat, and she smelled of the sea and tar and smoke. He found it even more intoxicating than her usual rose perfume.

Her wicked hands were mapping his back and shoulders; her lips were a whisper on his skin. He rubbed his body against hers, frantic to be closer, to touch her everywhere. He had loved her for so very long. Had dreamed of her, ached for her, every minute of every day, but this was not right. He must stop this. He knew it.

"Eliza--" he started to say, but she silenced him with a ferocious kiss and he felt any resistance, any sense of propriety, any honour he'd possessed, slip from his grasp.

He reached for her and she reached back.

3.

With a strangled cry like nothing Elizabeth had ever heard him utter before, Will collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily. She found the weight of him peculiarly comforting, even though she could scarcely draw a breath.

His thumb moved gently back and forth on her shoulder and she tenderly stroked his back. He started to tremble a little.

"Are you cold?"

"No," he whispered, his voice muffled because his face was still buried at the side of her neck.

Eventually, with a soft groan, he rolled off her and on to his back. She felt bereft without him.

They both stared at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke. The occasional laugh or clang of mugs from below punctuated their silence.

Elizabeth formed and reformed sentences in her mind, but could not find the words she needed. She hoped that somehow Will would understand what she could not speak. That she loved him, had loved him since she was a child, and wanted to be with him the rest of her life.

Eventually she heard his breathing deepen as he finally succumbed to exhaustion.

She wished she, too, could escape into slumber. Instead, she was left staring at the filthy ceiling (there was a crack that looked like a profile of her Uncle Milton, bulbous nose and all) and pondering what had just happened between them. Although Will had been as gentle as possible, it had still hurt far more than she had expected, like he was tearing her in two, and yet she had never felt closer to anyone in her life. Like he was a part of her and she of him. She never wanted to be separated from him again, even though she knew that she was not worthy of him. Not anymore.

As he started to snore softly, tears slowly began to slide down the sides of her face and into her hair. Her lies and betrayals were a maelstrom. She did not know where to begin to untangle this quagmire of her own creation. She knew that Jack going down with the Pearl was the only way to save Will and the rest of the crew. And yet… had she not told Jack that one day he would choose of his own accord to do the right thing? She had not allowed him that choice when the time came. She had made it for him.

And sentenced him to death.

The guilt of that gnawed at her, taking up residence in her gut and spreading its venom. She was desperate for absolution, yet knew she did not deserve it. Could it have been just days ago that she had described herself as having a moral centre? Such a statement seemed laughable now.

She had betrayed Will. She had killed Jack. Who was she? What was she? The nagging voice in the back of her head answered her unspoken questions.

A pirate.

The notion no longer seemed so adventurous or romantic as she turned her head to gaze at Will's sleeping face. He looked so tired and sad, even in repose. She could not bear that she was the cause of that. She slipped silently from the bed, dressed quickly, and stole from the room.

4.

Will awakened with a gasp, jumping halfway off the bed, hands flying immediately to his heart. It was there, thumping rapidly, and not torn -- still beating -- from his body. He collapsed back on the bed in relief. As the pounding receded to a normal rhythm, he lay staring at the ceiling and rubbing his fingers over his chest to reassure himself that no thick scarring marred it.

Elizabeth was gone.

He would have thought their encounter was part of his dream, except that he could still smell her on his skin. Shame filled him. Even knowing of her feelings for Jack, he had taken what he wanted with no thought of the damage to Elizabeth. It was no wonder she had fled at her first opportunity.

He sat up and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was no better than a mongrel on the street. Perhaps he was more like his father than he wished to believe.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," he whispered to himself.

Mere days after vowing to return for the man who had given him life, he was abandoning him to journey to the ends of the earth in search of Jack Sparrow. A fortnight ago he could not imagine a scenario in which he would be willing forego his promise. Nor, though, could he have imagined taking Elizabeth to his bed before she was his wife.

Yet he had now done both of these things. And he was quite certain that if Elizabeth were with him now, he would take her to his bed again without hesitation. It seemed there was no end to his lack of honour.

Will sprang to his feet, locating his trousers quickly and pulling them on before realizing he had no idea what he was going to do or where he was going to go. A raucous round of laughter from downstairs seemed to mock his indecision.

He went to the window and stared out through the fog, searching for any sign of the dawn that would signal his imminent departure from this dreadful place, but only those ghostly candles scattered across the bayou pierced the darkness. He shivered, chilled even in the cloying heat.

What was he to do? Each course he considered seemed more fraught with peril than the last. Tia Dalma had called him a man of destiny. She was wrong. He was merely a man who wanted to do right by his father and the woman he loved. He just wished he could fathom how. As he rubbed absently at his heart again, he saw the first hint of daybreak lighten the sky.

The End

Thanks for reading!


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